


Originate

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10132778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: If Fenris ever had a birthday before, he doesn't remember it any longer.Hawke fixes that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to myself :D Very early morning birthday to myself, but it's still the 6th, so shhh :p As I'm wont to do, I usually write some birthday fluff on my own and I can't believe I hadn't written birthdays for these guys yet, so here we are! 
> 
> It's been awhile since I've written for them and they're feeling a bit iffy but my friend got me PSN credit for my birfday so I've bought The Exiled Prince (I GET TO BE WITH SEBASTIAN INSTEAD OF JUST WATCHING ON YOUTUBE BAHAHA) and a re-playthrough is imminent~
> 
> I do not own _Dragon Age II_. Thanks for reading!

“Hey, Fenris.”

An inquisitive hum came in response, a quiet “mm?” barely heard from where it emanated just beneath Hawke’s left pectoral.

“When’s your birthday?” The lazy trailing of lyrium fingers stilled. No response was forthcoming, and Hawke grinned, running his fingers through his hair. “You know, your date of birth? Not that difficult of a question?”

“It is.” Fenris lifted his head, resting his chin on his chest to look up at him. “Whenever it might have been, I don’t remember it now.”

_ Oh shit _ . Now Hawke’s fingers stilled in the silver strands wrapped around his fingers. How could he  _ forget _ ? It was such a  _ normal _ inquiry, though. One of those absent-minded things, right? He hadn’t even been  _ thinking _ . Trust him to do that, not think. This was still a new thing, this relationship with Fenris. Handling this relationship with Fenris, there were things he forgot, things that he should  _ never _ forget because it hurt Fenris when he did. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Pay it no mind, Hawke.” Fenris turned to rest his cheek on his chest again. “I have no memories of it to begin with. It’s not something I can miss.”

It wasn’t exactly the most appeasing of responses. After all this time, after Fenris had opened up to him, little by little, letting him know of his past and the lack of memory of it thereof… 

“Hawke.” Three fingers drummed against Hawke’s skin in succession. “It does not matter.”

Hawke abandoned his stillness, raising his head to peck a kiss against Fenris’s hair. “It does, though, everything about your life does. It was insensitive, I just–” 

“My life before is not my life now. I cannot miss my past. I don’t envy the parts I do remember since becoming a slave.” He tilted his head. “You are not at fault, Hawke, it’s a… simple question, I’m certain. But I don’t know.” Fenris’s head fell another inch to the side. “Yours, though. The 23rd. Three months ago, now, wasn’t it?”

“You remembered?”

The arched eyebrows were near evident in Fenris’s tone when he responded, “It’s hard to forget”.

It, at the very least, provided Hawke opportunity to laugh off his little mistake, smiling at the reminder. “Varric  _ did _ make a bit of a fuss, didn’t he?”

“I seem to recall a certain mage boasting about dragons. While standing on the table.”

“You’re not talking about me.”

“No.” Fenris’s voice was warm. “Not at all.”

“That was good.” He didn’t remember most of it. That’s how he knew it had been good. “We should…” he trailed off. They  _ should _ , shouldn’t they? Do it again. Have a party again, and if Fenris didn’t know when his birthday was, anyway…

“Today,” Hawke said aloud. 

Another hum of question, Fenris tilting his head to look at him again.

Hawke beamed at him. “Today, your birthday’s today. We’ll have a party, I’ll tell Varric–”

“ _ Hawke _ . It is not my birthday.”

“How do you know?” Hawke grabbed his shoulders, sitting up with him. “Maybe it is. So we’ll make it your birthday. This’ll be your official birthday. How’s that? Today’s a good day, yeah?”

“Hawke…”

“Oh, what, did you have something pressing to do today?” Hawke deposited him from his lap onto the bed covers, taking his face in his hands to kiss his forehead. “Too bad. We’re having a surprise party!” he announced, all but flinging himself from the bed.

Fenris might have pretended that the rumble of laughter that came just then was not from him, but it encouraged Hawke on. He grabbed a pair of smalls and then his tunic, pulling both of them on. So maybe Fenris didn’t remember his past. Maybe he’d give him something to remember from his present, instead. What better way to do that than making up a birthday if you couldn’t remember your own?

Fenris slid off the bed, arms drawn across his chest against the chill. They needed to light the fire. Hawke pulled him into his arms for a moment, tracing against a twist of lyrium on the elf’s skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathed, and kissed him again.

Fenris made a noise that might have been a combination of amusement and disgust, but his hands were gentle against Hawke’s as he kissed him back. The action was not one of someone who could brook the intended, upcoming party.

“I’ll go talk to Varric,” Hawke announced, “you stay here. Don’t move.” A look, to which Hawke continued, “Okay, maybe you can put some clothes on, I’ll tell Orana to make breakfast.” He stopped for a moment, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, and then lowered his voice. Only slightly. “Is that alright?” he asked.

It was an idea; it was an  _ amazing _ idea, if he said so himself. They couldn’t go forever without Fenris having a birthday! And it was a day to drink! Be merry! Have what was called ‘the special’ at the Hanged Man and pretend it was fine wine! But that was also his opinion. He  _ liked _ being the centre of attention. This was Fenris, though, and if Fenris didn’t give approval for the plan, Hawke would (internally be disappointed but) desist immediately. That’s what you did, right?

It didn’t matter. Fenris seemed to consider for a moment before acquiescing with a nod. “If it will make you happy.”

“Forget about me, will it make  _ you _ happy?”

“I… do not remember ever celebrating, or having anyone celebrate for me.” Fenris quirked a smile. “It would please me, Hawke. Only for a little while,” he added, and there was the awkwardness creeping back into his tone that Hawke wanted to smooth away and tell him it was alright. “And perhaps tell them no gifts… the obligation is… uncomfortable–”

“Done.” Hawke cut him off before he could carry on sounding uncertain. “Be warned I’m probably going to get you something myself, though.”

Fenris huffed a dry laugh, turning to begin searching for his clothes. They were folded neatly at the end of the bed. Hawke handed them to him. “Of that, Hawke, I had no doubt,” he said, and did not sound displeased.

Hawke beamed. “Good! I’ll be right back! Stay put!” He’d have to tell Varric to go easy on the merrymaking. There would be food and drink and Wicked Grace and well wishes, and he would try to contain his awkward drunken table dancing for this go-round. Maybe one day, Fenris would be comfortable with a party to the likes of that extreme or being lavished with gifts that he only deserved. Until then, he’d keep it as toned down as possible and still show him that he actually  _ had _ people now that would celebrate with him at all. Parties were all well and good. But being with friends was all that really mattered. And alcohol. Alcohol was good, too.

“Hawke.”

Hawke glanced over his shoulder. “Hm?”

Fenris was looking at him with something like gentle mirth in his eyes, the true form of the elf’s amusement without so much as a hint of a laugh from his lips. “Pants, perhaps,” he pointed out, and Hawke looked down to see that he’d only gotten as far as a shirt and his smalls.

“Oh!  _ Maker _ , I thought something felt weird!” He bounded back across the room to get his pants and took no small amount of delight in the smirk on the elf’s face as they dressed together.

  
  


“Hawke.”

“Mhmmm?”

The party had been subdued, but no less entertaining. Varric had kept the mead flowing throughout the night, and Fenris had swiped a win from Isabela that Hawke still didn’t know if it had been intentional on her part or not. There had even been something akin to cake – the Hanged Man’s best, they assured him – and after the night had concluded, both Hawke felt and Fenris looked comfortably dozy. Tangled up in bed together now, Hawke tried to articulate a response. The best he got was the mumbled inquiring noise, but Fenris took it as a sign to continue.

“… I…” A sign to  _ try _ to continue. “Thank–”

“Any time,” Hawke said quickly, and he felt some of the tension leave Fenris’s shoulders as he relaxed. “Happy birthday,” he said, repeating the sentiment he’d been boasting all day and night. “Hope it was good.”

Fingers pressed against a collarbone, a nose nuzzling against a neck as Fenris settled close. “The best I can remember,” he affirmed, and Hawke smiled sleepily, pulling him close and basking in his warmth.

 


End file.
